We know that the eagle is admired worldwide for its bravery, courage, and strong will. It teaches its young to fly with extreme rigor. When the time comes, it throws its offspring out of the nest to prevent them from lazily returning to the “warm home” again, even going so far as to destroy the nest. The eagle is a bird unafraid of flying in rainy weather; in fact, such conditions stir its spirit, and it can use the pressure of the air to its advantage. Additionally, it brings benefits to agriculture by preying on rodents.
These characteristics of the eagle can be compared to those of teachers. For it is through our parents and teachers that we come to know the world, understand it, and achieve something. When we first come to school, our dreams are as high as the sky. We dream of changing the world. We debate with our peers about which professions are valuable and which are not, aspiring to become doctors, businessmen, or lawyers. It is the teacher who instills in us the understanding that achieving these dreams requires education. They dedicate their time, patience, and life to teach us, showing us how to distinguish between right and wrong. They teach us that life is not smooth, and that to achieve something, we must make an effort. If we face failure, they encourage us to try again, reminding us that for us, everything is just beginning.
Just as no two fingers are alike, people also have different goals and characters in life. Some may attempt to mislead those on the right path out of jealousy or for monetary gain. The teacher, however, teaches their students how to rid society of such “parasites.”
To the teacher, a student is like their own child. If the student makes a mistake, the teacher helps to correct it. Where the student spends their time and with whom, what they do—these things matter to the teacher.
A teacher is someone who has spent years studying and researching, climbing to the peak of their own success. Now, they are a noble professional, striving to ensure their students reach that same destination.
Otayeva Dinora Urinboy qizi was born on May 31, 2004, in the Khorezm region. She is currently a 3rd-year student at Urgench State Pedagogical Institute. As a creative student, she has participated in several competitions, including the regional stage of the Zomin Seminar.
Christopher Bernard will be reading at the Poets for Palestine SF Marathon Reading at San Francisco’s Bird and Beckett Bookstore. For a donation of any amount to the Middle East Children’s Alliance, a nonpartisan and nonpolitical organization helping all children in the region, poets can come and read at any time at the store on October 14th, Indigenous People’s Day. Please feel welcome to sign up here or email poetsforpalestinesf@gmail.com to be scheduled.
This month’s issue addresses our fears and aspirations: whether life will become what we dread, or what we hope.
Wazed Abdullah revels in the joy of the Bangladesh monsoon as Don Bormon celebrates flowers and wispy clouds in autumn. Maurizio Brancaleoni contributes bilingual haiku spotlighting days at the beach, insects, cats, and the rain. Brian Barbeito shares the experience of walking his dogs as summer turns to fall.
Soren Sorensen probes and stylizes sunsets in his photography series. Lan Qyqualla rhapsodizes about love, dreams, flowers, colors, poetry, and harp music. Ilhomova Mohichehra poetically welcomes autumn to her land.
John L. Waters reviews Brian Barbeito’s collection of poetry and photography Still Some Summer Wind Coming Through, pointing out how it showcases nature and the “subtle otherworldly” within seemingly ordinary scenes. Oz Hartwick finds a bit of the otherworldly within his ordinary vignettes as he shifts his perspective.
Kelly Moyer crafts stylized photographic closeups of ordinary scenes, rendering the familiar extraordinary. Ma Yongbo paints scenes where ordinary life becomes unreal, suffused with images associated with horror.
Sayani Mukherjee speaks of a bird’s sudden descent into a field of flowers and comments on our wildness beneath the surface. Jake Cosmos Aller illustrates physical attraction literally driving a person wild.
Mesfakus Salahin asserts that were the whole natural world to become silent, his love would continue. Mahbub Alam views life as a continual journey towards his beloved. Tuliyeva Sarvinoz writes tenderly of a mother and her young son and of the snow as a beloved preparing for her lover. Sevinch Tirkasheva speaks of young love and a connection that goes deeper than looks. llhomova Mohichehra offers up tender words for each of her family members. She also expresses a kind tribute to a classmate and friend.
Meanwhile, rather than describing tender loving affection, Mykyta Ryzhykh gets in your face with his pieces on war and physical and sexual abuse. His work speaks to the times when life seems to be an obscenity. Z.I. Mahmud looks at William Butler Yeats’ horror-esque poem The Second Coming through the lens of Yeats’ contemporary and tumultuous European political situation.
Alexander Kabishev’s next tale of life during the blockade of St. Petersburg horrifies with its domestic brutality. Almustapha Umar weeps with grief over the situations of others in his country.
In a switch back to thoughts of hope, Lidia Popa speaks to the power of poetry and language to connect people across social divides. Hari Lamba asserts his vision for a more just and equal America with better care for climate and ecology. Perizyat Azerbayeva highlights drip irrigation as a method to tackle the global problem of a shortage of clean drinkable water. Eldorbek Xotamov explores roles for technology and artificial intelligence in education.
Elmaya Jabbarova expresses her hopes for compassion and peace in our world. Eva Petropoulou affirms that action, not mere pretty words, are needed to heal our world.
Ahmad Al-Khatat’s story illustrates the healing power of intimate love after the trauma of surviving war and displacement. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects on the healing calm of silence after war.
Meanwhile, Christopher Bernard showcases the inhumanity of modern warfare in a story that reads at first glance like a sci-fi dystopia. Daniel De Culla also calls out the absurdity of war and the grossness of humor in the face of brutality.
Pat Doyne probes the roots of anti-Haitian immigrant rumors in Springfield, Ohio and critiques fear-mongering. Jorabayeva Ezoza Otkir looks to nature for metaphors on the corrosive nature of hate.
On a personal level, Nosirova Gavhar dramatizes various human responses to loss and trauma. Kendall Snipper dramatizes an eating disorder ravaging a woman’s life and body.
Donna Dallas’ characters are lonely, bruised by life, and drawn to what’s not good for them: drugs, bad relationships, lovers who don’t share their dreams. J.J. Campbell evokes his miserable life situation with dark humor.
Meanwhile, Maja Milojkovic savors each moment as she creates her own happiness through a positive attitude. In the same vein, Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa celebrates the power of a free and self-confident mind and the joy of spending time with small children.
Tuliyeva Sarvinoz urges us to move forward toward our goals with faith and dedication. Numonjonova Shahnozakhon echoes that sentiment, encouraging perseverance and resilience. S. Afrose resolves to move forward in life with optimism and self-respect.
Michael Robinson reflects on the peace he finds in his continuing Christian walk. Federico Wardal reviews anthropologist Claudia Costa’s research into spiritual fasting practices among the Yawanawa tribe in Brazil.
Duane Vorhees explores questions of legacy, inheritance, and immortality, both seriously and with humor. Isabel Gomes de Diego highlights Spanish nature and culture with her photographic closeups of flowers, religious icons, and a drawing made as a gift for a child’s parents. Federico Wardal highlights the archaeological findings of Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawass and his upcoming return to San Francisco’s De Young Museum. Zarina Bo’riyeva describes the history and cultural value of Samarkand.
Sarvinoz Mansurova sends outlines from a conference she attended on Turkic-adjacent cultures, exploring her region as well as her own Uzbek culture.
Barchinoy Jumaboyeva describes her affection for her native Uzbekistan, viewing the country as a spiritual parent. Deepika Singh explores the mother-daughter relationship in India and universally through her dialogue poem.
David Sapp’s short story captures the feel of decades-ago Audrey Hepburn film Roman Holiday as it describes a dream meeting between lovers in Rome. Mickey Corrigan renders the escapades and tragedies of historical women writers into poetry.
Duane Vorhees draws a parallel between Whitman’s detractors and those who would criticize Jacques Fleury’s poetry collection You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Authentic Self for having a non-traditional style.
This set of poems from Jacques Fleury expresses a sophisticated childlike whimsy. A few other pieces carry a sense of wry humor. Daniel De Culla relates a tale of inadvertently obtaining something useful through an email scam. Taylor Dibbert reflects on our escapes and “guilty pleasures.”
Noah Berlatsky reflects on both his progress as a poet and editors’ changing tastes. Sometimes it takes growing and maturing over time as a person to create more thoughtful craft.
Alan Catlin strips artworks down to their bare essential elements in his list poetry, drawing attention to main themes. Mark Young focuses on kernels of experience, on the core of what matters in the moment. J.D. Nelson captures sights, experiences, and thoughts into evocative monostich poems worthy of another reading.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ pictures get close up to everyday miracles: a beetle, car components, action figures, a boy in a dinosaur costume.
We hope that this issue, while being open about the worries we face, is also a source of everyday miracles and thought-provoking ideas. Enjoy!
Gastric Juice
What is a woman if not fluid
cursed and born bubbling up the esophagus
meeting fingers at the uvula and spewing
heated siren songs of stomach acid and
torn-up lemon slices and cucumber bile.
if not trapping and festering life
with eyes of gold and silver-plated teeth,
they cover tobacco stains under lips stapled tight
shrouding their deadbeat heart
with red right-hand knuckles.
What is a woman if not a frame imagined
too plump, if not a figure
malnourished from longing, yet so full
from desire, of indentured servitude
to their own stomach rumbling
with craze and clouded appetite.
A woman, if not
A sickly yellow vomited like
a scream amplified
From the depths of the womb.
J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website,MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
warning
a storm warning
the butterflies in my stomach
announced the summer plan to intercept
continuous distance
hair fell on hair
the sky turns red as if it knows
everything in advance
my hair fell for
the first time on your comb
which you will never use again
Basement
Human is the basement of the toilet room
Tenement maze of history and stories
No animal in the world has ever died for its cage before
No animal has invented aerial bombs
To first Octobers number
Suck my death
an unborn kitten is knocking at the church of a torn belly
the future flows like sperm from the wall of the gateway
my dead lover gets stuck in my throat where his cock used to hide during blowjob
I dream of having my throat fucked by a nuclear bomb
I dream in my dreams that instead of a strap-on a hydrogen bomb will stick out of my ass
I know that god will not pour anything into my balls during a handjob
mosquitoes and military pilots meanwhile fly towards the scent of blood
not a single military man gave me flowers
only somewhere in the dark a muscular sergeant said: hey fag suck my dick like before death
what if the ammunition depot where I'm already being fucked by a group of soldiers will explode from the fact that I'm so hot and sexy
suddenly I will destroy the army and piss all the military factories with my blood
suddenly I really will be fucked in a minute by the last soldier in the history of mankind
in the meantime they fuck me in all the cracks and call me a fag
I wonder if the soldiers have wives
I wonder how many lovers smeared the mouths of soldiers' wives with sperm
I wonder how many soldiers kissed their wives on the lips after that
I wonder how many nuclear bombs are produced in secrecy
I would like to grow longer hair and dye it blonde
the truth is hidden in the details of my anus
god fuck us all with your voice
we are tired of the silence of the red buttons
after which a nuclear explosion will follow
after fucking a new nuclear bomb will be born in me [?]
Brown town
In the heart of earthy hues,
Brown town,
A needle threads life's tapestry,
Brown town,
A need, a yearning palpable.
People encircle, form clay figures,
Silent echoes of existence,
Seated, molded by time's unseen hands.
Within, dwell stories untold,
Brown town,
Clay figures poised in quiet contemplation,
Sculpted reflections of shared moments.
my lover asked
my lover asked me when i first saw porn
it would be better if he asked something simpler, like how many times we quarrel with my husband
(sometimes it seems to me that love is too abstract a word for our painfully non-abstract world)
my lover finally pissed me off when he started talking about the non-binary nature of human nature
- I call you bitch to suck and not destroy our homosexual intimacy with the philosophy, fag, - I said to my lover while he turned into a statue
my lover is a beautiful antique statue but alas the statues don't have blood
my professional skills as a bloodsucker are now in question
my lover its: not reacted to my bites and slaps for a day
it seems to me that he sailed away into the cast-iron tunnel of the night
it seems to me that my lover dreams of flowers in ball gowns and without graves
death knocked on the back of the room and asked: whose house is this?
and this ruined house is now a ruin
the anti-missile installation of the heart has failed
the night in the eyes of my dead dead man will no longer dissolve
even explosions won't wake my lover
red sky like a bud revealed death
god's assistant pressed the wrong button again
аll in vain
We
Free
Freends
Friends
French fries
With self burger
We distance
We running
Running away from each other
vegetable garden
my body is a vegetable garden in which nothing grows
we're all hungry without the smell of fresh meat and cum
generals fuck tomorrow's dead for free saving on prostitutes
sun umbrellas and winter sleighs are in vain
sho(r)t (hi)story
I want the last nuclear bomb to explode inside my ass
the sun warms the cold body of my lover shot by dawn
the trenches are screaming but no historian
will tell about our buried feelings in the future
the stones are screaming but only the wind drowning in the river
will tell about our buried lovers
No title
the station of tears breaks out and thirst falls from the inside of the heart
let's go to my house, drink my blood, burst my capillaries, tear my ass, tear out my tonsils
meanwhile god's deputy keeps pushing the wrong buttons
onlyfa
the steak burned inside my stomach
the gun kills me but nothing will come out of my vagina
we drink only sperm
my eggs and balls strive for your grape nipple
still life of the world during the continuous noise of a siren
we drink only tears
one cocku
you drink the silence of my moan
and I feel uneasy about spring
which hasn’t come either
part-time
part-time job
being naked in the pristine ruins of houses
Haiku by Maurizio Brancaleoni
bagno all'alba:
la scia del sole tra alluce e illice
bathing at dawn —
the sun glitter between hallux and index toe
*
mattino calmo:
un mosaico d'impronte di piccioni
quiet morning —
a mosaic of pigeon footprints
*
luna calante:
vespe e formiche su carcassa di pane
waning moon —
wasps and ants on bread carcass
*
mattina presto:
cammino nei solchi del SUV sulla sabbia
early morning —
I walk in the ruts of the SUV on the sand
*
rough sea —
the cat's lapping
in the plant saucer
mare agitato:
il lappare del gatto
nel sottovaso
*
luna di tre dì:
il pomfo della puntura interrotta
three-day moon —
wheal of the interrupted puncture
*
mare calmo di mattina:
le zampe rosse dei piccioni
calm morning sea —
red feet of the pigeons
*
malato al sole:
le zampe fredde della mosca
ill in the sun —
cold feet of the fly
*
cirrocumuli:
la chiave dell'auto
fa da cotton fioc
cirrocumuli —
the car key
serves as a cotton swab
*
ascelle al vento:
l'insetto non riesce
a rigirarsi
armpits to the wind —
the bug can't
flip back over
*
dopo il mare
anche sporche le mani
sembran pulite
after the seaside
even if dirty
hands feel clean
*
restless wasps —
the lonely old man
from person to person
vespe irrequiete:
il vecchio solo
di persona in persona
*
ora di pranzo:
condizionatore di
sopravvivenza
lunch time —
survival
conditioner
*
notte d'estate:
centro zanzare
mentre il sonno mi elude
summer night —
I hit mosquitoes squarely
while sleep eludes me
*
mese d'agosto:
anche le case rosse
si spelleranno?
August —
will even the red houses
start to peel?
*
niente acqua per
le labbra secche:
lamiere lucenti
no water for
dry lips —
shining floor plates
*
vento in spiaggia:
una mano sul cell
l’altra sull’ombrellone
wind at the seaside —
one hand on the phone
the other on the beach umbrella
*
Pronto soccorso:
la zanzara bruna
non trova l'orecchio
Emergency Room —
the brown mosquito
can't find the ear
*
bocca sdentata:
alcune case senza
tenda da sole
gap-toothed mouth —
some houses have
no awning
*
vespa vasaia:
una solitudine tranquilla
potter wasp —
a tranquil solitude
*
nascondendosi
nell'orto il gatto
svicola indisturbato
hiding
in the garden the cat
sneaks away undisturbed
*
primi rovesci:
sotto la giacca a vento
la canottiera
first downpours —
under the windbreaker
a tank top
Maurizio Brancaleoni lives near Rome, Italy.
He holds a master's degree in Language and Translation Studies from Sapienza University. His haiku and senryu have appeared in Dadakuku, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Under The Bashō, Horror Senryu Journal, Cold Moon Journal, Scarlet Dragonfly, Memorie di una geisha, Rakuen, Haiku Corner, Pure Haiku, Five Fleas, Shadow Pond Journal, Haikuniverse, Asahi Haikuist, Plum Tree Tavern and Wales Haiku Journal. In 2023 one of his micropoems was nominated for a Touchstone Award, while a horror ku originally featured in the Halloween-themed issue of Scarlet Dragonfly was re-published in this year's Dwarf Stars anthology.
Maurizio manages “Leisure Spot", a bilingual blog where he posts interviews, reviews and translations: https://leisurespotblog.blogspot.com/p/interviste-e-recensioni-interviews-and.html
(Photo of a female statue in a dress with no head and no left hand, surrounded by stones and trees)
A stunning photo from Brian Michael Barbeito’s collection of vignettes and photographs, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through
The digital net of Brian’s camera captures the look of so many things, and his visions linger long and sink deep in the well of memory. Sure, as the Winged Victory still stands tall in the art history of Greek sculptors, the artistry in Brian’s photos lingers in a sensitive viewer’s memory and thoughts. Each pictorial image preserves a certain place at a certain time, and the reader of this book’s writings can experience vicariously the feelings and thoughts of its author, over and over, time and time again.
From forest paths to bridges over bogs and water lilies with ducks and swans abiding, to crowded shops, carnivals, city streets old barns and snow-clad woodlands, Brian takes you on many outings through his world and shares his intimate thoughts and feelings of the unseen as well as the seen. Brian presents the subtle other-worldly as a robust and palpable part of everyday life. Brian, as an image-builder, shows us ways to see the plainest of ordinary things as special and wonderful.
Each image in this book Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through makes an immediate impression, as the writing adds more and more gateways through which one’s imagination can enter to roam and mix with Brian’s own. The spontaneity of the photographer’s own actions moves a reader to welcome their own heartfelt spontaneity as it encourages one to venture out exploring and preserving in photos or in writings some impressions of the local natural scenery, featuring combinations of as animals, plants, rock walls, old barns, road signs, marbled skies, and other wonders.
I have known Brian for many years, and he has a wealth of photographs and vignettes, which I hope he will be presenting soon in additional books comparable to Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through.
John L. Waters
